


Fall Of A Hero

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen, M/M, king arthur ficabration, very first fic in this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur mourns his loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Of A Hero

**Author's Note:**

> I have another piece I'm working on for this fic-a-bration, but I thought to post my very first ever story I wrote for this fandom here, for fun, and to make me realize how things and interests have changed for me.
> 
> I did not alter the writing or the formatting (even though it's terrible) just for old time's sake. I have to hope I've changed for the better as a writer, but I honor the work I put into this piece as a learning mechanism. 
> 
> And this was obviously written before I decided Arthur and Lancelot belonged together, so it's weird to see not too many slashy thoughts. *laughs*
> 
> Happy anniversary, King Arthur fandom.

Arthur stands at the edge of the clearing, wind and snow whipping his hair into a halo around his head. His now blood stained and tattered cloak tears at his shoulders, but he ignores it.

It’s still strange to him that so many things can change in the course of a few days. One day, all that mattered was freedom, and Rome.

And on the next, another long, arduous journey, and another betrayal of his men.

And yet they still followed him. Still had believed in him. Especially when he hadn’t even believed in himself.

And that was the crushing blow really, wasn’t it? That they could see in him what he was blind to himself. He thought that he knew exactly what he stood for, what he believed in.

And then the people they had meant to save had turned out to be just as evil and monstrous as the Saxon Warlords they had had to fight.

He had found himself lost in that moment when they discovered the oubliette like prison beneath the large home of the family they had been sent to protect.

His arm had taken over, Excalibur flashing like lightning on the chains holding the prisoners in their pens. And then he had seen her. He doesn’t remember picking her up, or taking her out into the day to confront her captors. He does remember pushing Marius Honorius to the ground in a fury, ready to take his head off. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t.

If it meant the possibility of getting his men their freedom, he would tolerate the man’s presence and assure his safe passage back to Hadrian’s Wall.

In the end it had also meant finding Guinevere, and that had been worth it as well.

But how well does he know her? He knows she is a warrior, born and bred, like himself, and like Lancelot.

Oh God.

He stares dry eyed at the trees ringed around the edge of the clearing, their tops blowing over in the wind, looking ready to snap at any second.

His desire and blatant need to return to Rome had been so strong in him up until recently, that the confusion running through his body now feels like a virus, corrupting and poisoning him.

Were their deaths worth it? Does he deserve the sacrifice they had made? 

God hadn’t kept his part of their bargain. And Arthur isn’t sure he can forgive that.

He fingers the set of swords stowed at his waist. He hadn’t had the heart to part with them, or bury them like they warranted. The death of their owner had assured them of the fact that they would never be used by another man. There would be none deserving of them.

So he holds them, and for a minute, imagines he can hear his friend asking why in the hell is Arthur even deigning to touch his weaponry?

A small smile stretches his cracked and bloody lips, and he looks skyward, watching the circling hawks that have been present since the end of the battle. Carrion eaters have a job to do.

Just like he does. Can he? He’s no king. He’s just a soldier. A man. A regular, self doubting, mistake making, human man. He does his duty, does it well, actually. But to take leadership to the next level, and join with these people, the people of this land three of his best men had just died to protect…he doesn’t know.

If he doesn’t do it, he would be dishonoring their fight and their memories. And he definitely can’t forgive himself for that.

A twig breaks in the silence behind him, and he’s so lost in thought, that the word out of his mouth comes without thinking.

“Lancelot?”

“Arthur,” Guinevere says, and he shakes his head, his sweat soaked hair still dripping into his eyes.

She approaches him, and stops next to where he is standing, still holding his dead compatriot’s swords.

“Why do you trouble yourself over this? His death was an honorable one,” she says softly. He doesn’t look at her.

“That doesn’t make it any easier to bear,” he answers.

“I understand that. But he I also understand that he wouldn’t want you to mourn forever. He lived a soldier’s life. And he died a soldier’s death. I truly think he would be satisfied-“

Arthur throws the swords down, where they quiver, points stuck into the earth. He whirls to face her.

“What would you know of it? You barely knew him. I served with him for fifteen years. He knew me as no one did. And he’s gone, and for what? Because he had the misfortune to serve under me? He was foolish enough to follow me, to trust me? This battle that wasn’t mine to begin with got him killed. He and two others that can never return home. I *promised* them their freedom. All I gave them was death.”

He strides away, into the middle of the clearing, ripping his breast plate and cloak from his chest. They land in a heap next to his helmet.

“I am not unfeeling, Arthur,” Guinevere tells him. Her face paint is smeared with blood, and her tiny but strong frame sweats as his does. The snow does not cool them.

“I mearly meant to point out that it was not an unhonorable death. It doesn’t mean that I won’t mourn his loss as well.”

“You cannot. You hardly knew anything about him. How can you possibly begin to understand this?” Arthur says through clenched teeth. The muscles in his jaw bunch and flex, and his eyes suddenly burn.

“I can, because he was your friend, and I will mourn him because you will,” she answers, stepping around him to stand in his path. She puts a hand on his arm, the chillyness of the mail seeping into her fingers.

He stares at her, willing himself to believe. He had been drawn to her from the moment he laid eyes on her broken body in it’s tiny jail cell. He wants to believe her, so desperately that his gut aches. He cannot take the loss of another.

“You will honor his memory forever, my lord, I know you will,” she adds, stepping closer to him, placing her other hand on his opposite arm. He begins to tremble, exhaustion and emotion ripping their way through him.

“He would do the same for you.”

His knees give way, and she follows him to the ground, cradling his head against her breast as he begins to weep.

“I belong to you, and you to me,” she whispers. “We can do this, but only together will we be strong enough to survive.”

“I cannot do it alone,” he admits aloud, and she nods against his head. 

“You will not be alone. Ever. I am with you, Arthur, always. Your men will be as well. As will Lancelot, and Dagonet, and Tristan. We will not let them be forgotten.”

His arms go around her, and she pulls him flush with her body, taking his face in her hands.

His eyes search hers, and in them he finds strength, compassion, and above all else, love.

The things he needs the most if he is to survive what comes next.

She kisses him softly, and his eyes flutter shut, taking solace in one brief moment of joy stolen in a world of sadness and loss.

He thinks of his friend, and knows in his heart she is right. Lancelot would want this, and he would be damned if Arthur didn’t move on with his life, and keep fighting.

He breaks away from her, and turns to see the double swords that belonged to Lancelot, shining in a shaft of light that has suddenly pierced the gloom.

He will hang them in his hall, mounted behind his throne, so as to never forget the sacrifice made for him.

Lancelot’s memory will never be far from his thoughts. 

He stands, and pulls Guinevere with him. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he leads her from the clearing, stopping only to pluck the swords out of the ground.

The sun appears then, blinding and golden, reflecting off the tiny flakes of snow falling still.

They walk together back to the citadel, memory and honor clutched tight in their hearts.


End file.
